Papa Don't Preach
by GuidexYouxHome
Summary: “Listen to me, Papa. I’m only going to say it once: I’m keeping her. I’m keeping my baby girl. And there’s nothing you can do about it."


**A/N: Spittin' out another Alias fic. This one is also Irina-centered (because let's face it, she's the most awesome, complex character ever), but this time it's a one shot. It may or may not be considered AU, depending on how you look at it. Either way, I hope you guys like it. And remember, I live on feedback, so please review!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Alias, or any of its characters. I kinda-sorta own Anton, though.**

**Alias: Papa Don't Preach**

**--**

It was a night that was considered especially foul for an autumn evening in Los Angeles. The air was frigidly cold and dark, any trace of moon or starlight hidden by the murky, ominous gray clouds above. Rain poured down in sheets, and the resulting gloom caused even the dim orange glow of the streetlights to be lessened considerably. Understandably, there weren't many people willing to risk these ugly conditions. Most were keeping to their homes, especially at this hour.

And so there was no one around to witness the hooded figure hurrying down the street under an umbrella, their pace hurried and their manner suspiciously wary. Once or twice, they would pause to cast a wary glance about them, before rushing on toward their destination.

At length, the figure rounded a corner sharply, and carried on down a deserted alley. The buildings on either side were deserted, and the alley streets were coated with mud and grime. The door that the figure was now approaching radiated neglect. It looked as if someone had attempted to board it up at one point, but now it was beginning to come off its hinges. The hooded figure didn't give its condition a second glance as they pushed it open with a creak, and slipped inside.

The interior room was dark, save for a flickering lantern set atop a nearby table. The figure reached up to the hood of their coat, and lowered it slowly. The action revealed a woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties. Her hair long and wavy, brown in color and falling down to the middle of her back. Her guarded chocolate-colored gaze scanned the room she had entered. The entire vibe of the place was downright shady, but judging from the woman's familiarized stance, she had been here before.

She moved towards the chair as if to sit down, but then stopped suddenly. Her posture was tense and alert as she looked over her surroundings once more, this time fixing a stare on a shadowed form in the corner of the room. As if bidden to do so by her uncertain glare, the other figure stepped into the dim light to reveal himself as a man who looked to be in his early fifties. His graying hair was slicked back, and his eyes—the same dark brown as the younger woman's—betrayed no hint of emotion. He presented himself very calmly, but the woman recoiled as if he had struck her. Clearly, she had not expected to see him here.

They stared at each other grimly, sizing each other up for a long moment. And then, slowly, the woman spoke. "…You're not my handler."

The man's lips curled into a thin smile. "It is a pleasure to see you as well, Irina." He greeted curtly. There was a mocking edge to his tone, and his smile did not reach his eyes.

"I didn't agree to this." Irina took a step backward, her eyes flashing—boiling with anger, but also with an undertone of fear.

Her hostile reaction didn't seem to faze the man at all. He merely continued to survey her coolly, the smile on his lips fading to a thin line. "Agent Khasinau was…unable to be here tonight. I volunteered to fill in for him. After all, I couldn't pass up the chance to spend some time with my youngest daughter."

The word 'daughter' seemed to make Irina cringe, and for a moment she averted her gaze. When it became clear that she was not going to respond, the man—her father—continued.

"It is a great honor to complete the task you have been chosen for. Your sisters are both terribly jealous that they have not been offered such an excellent opportunity to serve the KGB." He inclined his head proudly. "Are you making any progress with Bristow?"

Irina scowled slightly, reaching one hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I've followed my orders, if that's what you mean. I married him. I gained his trust. I go through his briefcases and hack his work computers and tap his phones…and I report back here every month. What further," She paused, looking spiteful. "_progress _would you like me to make?"

For a moment, a flash of approval glittered in his eyes—or at least, Irina thought it did. But no, that couldn't be right. This man was Anton Grigory Derevko, her father. And as a rule, he was a father that refused to display even a hint of warmth toward his children. Irina could remember a time when he was different; protective, wise, gentle…but all of that had ended the moment she had become old enough to be recruited into the KGB. From then on, she, like her sisters, had become nothing more than a business tool in his eyes. Truth be told, Irina resented him bitterly for it, but he had succeeded in teaching her one thing: loyalty to the KGB was more important than loyalty to your own blood.

Then Anton spoke again, stirring her from her thoughts. "There's no need to be indignant, Irina. Your superiors are satisfied with your work so far." He told her formally. "I did not call this meeting to criticize you. In fact, I didn't call this meeting at all—you did."

With every passing moment, the tension in the air thickened. Irina's stance was growing increasingly protective as she watched her father warily. "I asked my _handler, _Agent Khasinau, to meet me here. Please contact me when he becomes available again." She said pointedly, turning away.

A firm hand reached out and grabbed her arm, stopping her before she could move toward the door. "Don't turn your back on me!" Anton hissed through gritted teeth, his features hardening into a scowl. "Or have you forgotten who I am?"

"Let me go." Irina's voice was dangerously calm, and she glared up at her father with a fury that matched his own. There was a part of her that feared this man, but now that part was hidden under a smoldering wave of bristling indignation. She managed to meet his gaze evenly, and for a moment Anton drew himself up as if he intended to strike out—but then he was releasing her arm and stepping back a pace, his violent nature disappearing as quickly as it had come.

There was a very loaded pause, in which Irina contemplated making for the door again. But then, Anton spoke once more. "There's something else, isn't there? What are you so worried about?" He growled, his eyes sweeping over his daughter's defensive form. Her chin was held high, her expression was defiant, her hands resting protectively across her stomach. Anton fixed his attention on this last detail, suddenly frozen with suspicion.

Irina hadn't missed his reaction, but still she hesitated before replying. She knew there was no way around this—sooner or later the KGB would have found out, and if it had been later rather then sooner, she would have been further punished for trying to conceal it. Still, she had meant to make her confession to Agent Khasinau. Any other agent, really, would be preferable to her father. Yet here they were, and she could see no way of getting out of this.

She took a deep, steadying breath. "I'm pregnant, Papa."

Instantly, the room felt colder, as if the lantern had been put out and the door propped open to let the autumn chill into the room. Irina watched with bated breath as a million different things passed over her father's face. First disbelief, then a brief, shocked rage, and then, finally, a stony mask of apathy.

If there was ever a time to make a break for it, Irina thought grimly, it would be now. But she refused to show such cowardice after the revelation of her darkest secret. She would have to accept whatever Anton sentenced her to.

When he finally spoke, his words were deep and slow. "I hope for your sake, Irina, that this is some sort of joke."

Fighting the urge to gape at him incredulously, Irina answered by the tiniest shake of her head. The motion seemed to snap something in Anton. His fist slammed down on the table, rattling it to its unsteady wooden legs.

"Stupid girl! Do you know what you've done?" He snarled at her, just barely managing to keep from shouting. "Do you even have the _faintest _idea? Everything we've worked for could fall apart, _because of you!_" He was raging, and Irina guessed that he only paused to allow a few precious seconds to plead for his forgiveness. But the only reaction she offered was to bite her lip slightly and avert her gaze.

Anton didn't have much patience for her silence. In a heartbeat, he went on. "Bristow. Does he know?" he demanded. Irina slowly shook her head, and Anton sighed deeply. "If he ever finds out…he could quit his job. He could try to move away with you…your pregnancy would bring unwanted attention; we could all be exposed!" Anton's eyes narrowed suddenly. "You're lucky I don't report you here and now. When is your appointment?"

Irina's eyes snapped back to his. "Appointment?" she repeated hesitantly.

"For the abortion, you idiot girl."

For the first time, his daughter allowed a hint of fear to break through her façade. She blinked, trying to find her voice. "Papa—"

"Don't you dare!" Anton advanced on her again, his lip curled in a vicious sneer. "I will not hear any of your petty arguments! You've become far too soft-hearted where Jack Bristow is concerned, and now you're committing treason to your country by carrying his child! I won't have it! You will not disgrace my honor or my family name with that child. You _will _dispose of it—"

"Her."

He froze, looking livid. "…Excuse me?"

Really, Irina wasn't sure how this single word had managed to slip out of her mouth. She opened her mouth to speak, trying not to stutter. "It's a her. Not an it." She muttered quietly.

Her father stared down at her incredulously. "You've known about this…you've known you were…"

"Yes." Irina stiffened her shoulders and drew herself up, bristling furiously. Her second revelation, and Anton's momentary shock in response to it, seemed to give her strength. Suddenly, she was clenching her fists, pushing aside all fear and stepping closer to the intimating form of the man before her. "Listen to me, Papa. I'm only going to say it once: I'm keeping her. I'm keeping my baby girl. And there's nothing you can do about it. For years, I've followed your every word—done you're every bidding, because our legacy at the KGB meant something to you. Well, this baby is the one thing in the world that really, _truly_ means something to me, and I'm not going to let you—or anyone take her from me. Report me if you want." She practically spat her last words, holding her furious glare upon him for a moment longer, before whirling around and heading toward the door once again.

It almost seemed as if Anton would remain standing there, frozen in place, for the rest of eternity. He stood stone still as his daughter moved away from him, his expression blank and his face pale. For a brief moment, Irina thought he was going to let her go.

But then he was there, pushing his way in front of her, gripping her by the shoulders insistently. It wasn't the same violent outrage he'd displayed before; this time he was subdued but threatening, his eyes dark. "We will both die before I allow any daughter of mine to dishonor me." He whispered dangerously, meeting her gaze directly. "I will appeal to the KGB. I will convince them that Jack Bristow is slipping away, and the only way to ensure his loyalty to you is to have his child. Do you hear me, Irina? This wasn't a mistake—you were _ordered _to have this baby. Are we clear?"

Irina shot him a bewildered, distraught glare, and said nothing. Anton gritted his teeth at her silence and leaned closer.

"I said…_are we clear_?"

His daughter wrenched herself away from him, glaring blankly at the floor. "Yes." She murmured, almost inaudibly.

Anton took a pace back, his fury losing some of its energy. He continued on staring thoughtfully at Irina for a moment, and then gave a short nod. "One day you'll regret this. Mark my words. One day that brat of yours will betray you just as you've betrayed me. And Irina? You'll hate her for it." With that, he pushed roughly past her and out the door, slamming it behind him aggressively.

Irina listened to the sound of his boots against the soaked pavement as his footsteps faded away. It was only when she could no longer here them that she fell back, leaning against the table for support, and allowed a single tear to trickle down her cheek. She didn't know what her future held, but there was one thing she was certain of:

Anton was wrong.

Perhaps one day her future daughter would know her for who she really was and hate her for it. Perhaps they'd end up more akin to bitter enemies than actual mother and daughter. Maybe there would even come a day when Irina resented her child enough to repeat the tale her own father had just invented. But even if all of this were true, Irina would never be able to bring herself to regret the decision made today.

And no matter what happened, she'd always be proud of her baby girl.


End file.
